


The Last Gunslinger

by ishafel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-08
Updated: 2011-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-15 12:43:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/160930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ishafel/pseuds/ishafel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A funeral, and words that need to be said.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Gunslinger

They bury John in sunlight so bright it seems like an insult, in the cemetery in Lawrence where Mary's body lies. There are a dozen people there, no flowers except what the church provided. The priest is a young man, and never met John Winchester: he's only agreed to do this out of charity. Dean thinks John would have hated it. This wasn't his religion, it was Mary's. Whatever John Winchester believed, if he believed anything, he kept to himself. Dean had hoped Sam would find some comfort in it--in the time-worn words and the ritual neither of them really understood. But Sam is stiff and too quiet beside him, the quiet of a man who's been taught, by word and by example, that grief is a weakness he cannot afford.

"Is there anyone who would like to share their memories of John Winchester?" the priest asks a little reluctantly. Dean knows he's wondering what will happen if no-one stands up. He risks a glance over his shoulder. Bowed heads, all of them waiting. They don't know what to say, or they have nothing good to say. Sam shifts, sighs a little. Dean's on his feet and moving to the front of the church before he lets himself think.

"My father," he says, and his voice cracks, not from sorrow but from terror. Sam is the clever one, the one who knows the big words. Dean's only good at telling lies. Sam is looking at him with all the hope and love in the world on his face. "My father did the best he could, all his life. He didn't always do the right thing, and he didn't ever do the easy thing." There's a snort, from someone out in the pews--a handful of smiles.

"Dad--there are a lot of things I could say," Dean says, and now the words come easy, so they're almost stumbling over each other. "That he was a good guy, that he was tough but fair, that he loved his family. The kind of things that you could say about anybody, that don't mean anything even if they're true. I'm not goin' to say them, and you wouldn't believe me if I did. They're the kind of things that sound like lies even when they aren't."

"I loved my dad," he says, and he meets Sam's eyes, "and I always knew he loved us, even if it didn't always show. There wasn't any God, Corps, and Country for him. You were family, or you weren't. And I know what some of you thought about him--hell, he knew, too, you weren't any of you shy about sayin' it to his face, or to my face. You thought he was crazy, that he forgot what was important, that he was turnin' into the thing he was huntin'." He's talking to Sam now, like the rest of them aren't even there. If he doesn't say this now, while Sam is listening he may never get another chance.

"I got nothin'," he says to Sam. "No way to prove you wrong. I doubted him a time or two myself. But you are wrong. Sometimes you get so caught up believin' in bad things, you forget there are good things out there. Dad--he did what he could, with what he had."

They bury John in sunlight so bright it seems like a promise, and maybe it's the sun that makes Sam squint, makes his eyes tear up. Dean doesn't ask, doesn't want to know. He's done his best. He drops a handful of dirt into the grave when Sam does, and he doesn't think about the fact that his father said goodbye before he died of natural causes.


End file.
